


Love's Such An Old-Fashioned Word

by Lavellington



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley ponders semantics and Aziraphale is bad at computers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), TV Verse, but with elements of the book all muddled in, fluff fluff fluff, in equal measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavellington/pseuds/Lavellington
Summary: There has to be, Crowley thinks, a better word thanlove.





	Love's Such An Old-Fashioned Word

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo has anyone titled a GO fic using Queen lyrics before? Or am I the first? I'm new. 
> 
> \- I have loaned my copy of the book to a friend, and cannot for the life of me remember if either book!Aziraphale or TV!Aziraphale owns a computer.
> 
> \- I have no idea what kind of snake, if any, Crowley is supposed to be. Herpetologists, don't @ me.

There has to be, Crowley thinks, a better word than _love_.

Love belongs to upstairs, the head and front of all their most annoying propaganda, dispensed with abandon to children and crickets and fluffy bunnies. That word, through overuse, has been diffused and scattered – a distant Heavenly constellation, giving off no heat. In his weaker moments, Crowley lies in his darkened bedroom, stares at the ceiling, and tries to think of a better one.

 _I adore you_ , Aziraphale says once, drunk and maudlin, head lolling onto Crowley's shoulder, and Crowley undulates with covert pleasure, his fingers curling and his tongue sliding against his teeth. _My dear_ , Aziraphale calls him, a wonderfully earthly term of endearment, and Crowley stretches into it like a kitten bumping his head on Aziraphale's generous hands.

 _Angel_ , Crowley says, and that's alright, that's fine – nothing more or less loaded than _demon_ , or _human_ , or _vipera berus_ – a simple matter of taxonomy. Aziraphale never reacts anyway, but he does sometimes say _you wily old serpent_ , with a wry fondness that makes Crowley ache in a nameless, primal cavity somewhere in his ancient corporation.

None of it is anywhere near enough.

 

*

 

Humans, of course, have made something of it – they use the word in ways that the ranks of Heaven would never endorse, although as long as it is rooted in generosity and not violence Aziraphale never seems to object. Crowley has seen him smile fondly and beatifically at the most immoderate displays of lust throughout the centuries, as if their hot, desperate graspings were the first wobbly steps towards the divine.

But then, Aziraphale has always been odd, by anyone's standards.

 

*

 

In the year 2003, Aziraphale bows to the inevitable, and acquires a computer. Crowley refuses to help him choose one, and then agrees, and then, bowing to the equally inevitable, simply buys the damn thing for him.

He helps Aziraphale set it up, explaining to him in the most Victorian terms possible the arcane workings of the machine, and preening a little at the more obviously diabolical components of the operating system – the spreadsheets, Aziraphale guesses correctly, were his idea.

He sets up an email account for Aziraphale, registering him as 'angelcakes@yahoo.com'. He shows him how to use a search engine, and patiently creates bookmarks for some rare booksellers and the like, throwing in a satanist chatroom just for laughs, bookmarked as 'soufflé recipes'.

He refuses to change Aziraphale's email ID, or tell him how to change it himself, so that Aziraphale is forced to subside, grumbling, and have it printed on the business cards he gives to book dealers and discerning connoisseurs. They don't appreciate the joke on the same level of course, but Aziraphale still flushes pink with annoyance every time he hands a card over.

Crowley feels satisfied.

Aziraphale puts on his tiny, unfashionable spectacles every time he uses the computer, his face awash in light and puckered in concentration, his fingers pecking irregularly at the keys.

The day after Crowley's foray into IT support, he receives an email which just reads:

 _Thank you_ , _my dear._

 

*

 

Crowley, unlike most demons, has a complicated relationship with the human concept of _good manners_. They are not virtuous in and of themselves, but any show of conventionality and consideration is frowned upon, on principle. What the legions of Hell fail to realise is that, when wielded correctly they can be superb instruments of insincerity, manipulation and malice. When humans start to get quite big on etiquette – the British take to it like ducks to water – Crowley takes pains to acquaint himself with all of their stifling, piddling rules and expectations. He knows the proper forms of address for all ranks and stations, can sketch a bow of perfect depth to a blushing lady, and understands just the amount of cruelty a gentleman is expected to show his subordinates. These are all tools of his trade. Hastur and Ligur wouldn't bother, but that is one of the many reasons they are Down There and Crowley is Up Here. No proper instincts; no finer feelings.

Aziraphale is the most faultlessly polite being, ethereal or otherwise, Crowley has ever met. He delivers the words with a terrifying sincerity, regardless of rank, station or utter twattishness of the recipient. He does it out of love – it is one of the countless human foibles that in Aziraphale's hands is transmuted into virtue.

Crowley hates when Aziraphale thanks him for anything.

 _You're welcome, angel_ , Crowley types back, and hits send.

 

*

 

Crowley wants to ask Aziraphale, always, at any given moment. He wants to say, _what is it that you feel for me, and how does it differ from what you feel for everything and everyone else?_ He wants, desperately, for Aziraphale to name it, to hold it up to the light. He wants to say, _is any of it just for me?_

 

*

 

'What do you think of this wine?' Crowley asks, reclining in athletic fashion with one leg slung over the back of Aziraphale's sofa. He holds the glass up so it catches the last fading light from the window, and takes off his sunglasses to squint at it dubiously.

'Hmm?' Aziraphale replies, hunched over his computer keyboard. His typing has improved somewhat in the past seventeen years, but the staccato tapping is still immensely irritating.

'The _wine_ , Aziraphale. Do you _like_ it?'

'Oh,' Aziraphale says, blinking back to reality. 'Dreadfully sorry, my dear – the, yes of course, the wine. Very generous of you.'

He picks up his glass and swivels in his chair as he takes a sip, holding the wine in his mouth before he swallows. Crowley watches his eyes unfocus and his lips purse and his forehead wrinkle and hunts, fruitlessly, for words.

 _The curves of your lips rewrite history_ , he thinks, and then shudders. He bloody hates Oscar Wilde. He tosses back the rest of his mediocre wine.

'Hmm,' Aziraphale says again, with a different inflection.

'Yeah,' Crowley says, 'that's what I was thinking. I don't suppose you have anything better?'

'By all means,' Aziraphale says, waving a benevolent hand towards the back room as he turns back to the computer, 'go and hunt something out. How would you feel about ordering in some food?'

'Fine,' Crowley says, heaving himself off the sofa. 'Whatever you're in the mood for. I'm not picky.'

'Obviously,' Aziraphale murmurs, making a face into his wine glass, and Crowley cuffs him lightly on the head as he passes.

He grabs a decently dusty bottle of Rioja and saunters back into the shop, pausing to peer over Aziraphale's shoulder at the computer screen, where Aziraphale is laboriously typing, _Can you recommend me a good tapas restaurant that does takeaway, please?_

Crowley bursts out laughing, closer to Aziraphale's ear than he meant to, and Aziraphale jumps, almost causing Crowley to drop the wine.

' _Really_ , Crowley,' he says reprovingly.

Crowley puts the wine down and howls with laughter, doubled over and holding on to the back of Aziraphale's chair.

'What on earth is the matter with you?' Aziraphale asks, turning halfway in his chair to look at him.

'Do you –' Crowley begins, and then chokes, resting his head on his arm and waving his free hand helplessly. Aziraphale huffs and turns back around to the keyboard. The back of his neck, inches from Crowley's face, is flushing a rosy pink. Crowley takes a deep breath and tries again.

'Do you type in _please_ every time you search for something on the internet?'

Aziraphale turns his head slightly – _close, so close_ – and looks at him uncertainly over the tops of his spectacles.

'Isn't that right?'

Crowley exhales hard through his nose, and then kisses Aziraphale hard, and quite awkwardly, on his divine cheekbone.

'You completely marvellous bloody idiot,' he mutters, resting his forehead on Aziraphale's temple.

It takes him a second to notice that Aziraphale has gone stiff, his back straight and his beautiful hands turned to granite on the keyboard.

Crowley withdraws slowly, and leaves without a word.

 

*

 

In his haste to escape a disaster of his own making, Crowley leaves without his sunglasses, his shoes, or his car. He does what he has not done for decades – _centuries_ – and simply wills himself back to his own flat, stumbling slightly as he materialises in his kitchen.

He wills himself another pair of shoes, another pair of glasses, and a warm winter coat from his wardrobe, and then wills himself right back out again.

 

*

 

He finds himself, without knowing how or why, in the graveyard where he first made the acquaintance of the infant Antichrist, thirteen years ago. It's dark and shadowy and ominous, and everything a graveyard should be. A perverse blend of the putrid and the holy. He drops to his knees, puts his hands on the ground and breathes deeply. He thinks most demons would be loath to admit that the reason they love skulking around graveyards so much is because they are as close as most of them can get to Heaven. Graveyards are consecrated ground, but they are also the realm of murder and necromancy and sin. They are no man's land – they belong to both sides.

He and Aziraphale met in a dark and damp graveyard once, but they'd both found it distasteful, and thereafter confined their clandestine meetings to verdant green parks just before lunchtime. Crowley complained a little for the form of the thing, but it was a relief. Graveyards don't suit Aziraphale. He looks small and soft and ill-at-ease between the looming granite plinths and fantastical winged statues.

The earth under Crowley's palms tingles warningly, but it doesn't hurt the way the searing marble of the church floor would. The grass tickles. He wiggles his fingers and tries to talk himself down from the giddy heights of his damned adolescent panic. Aziraphale won't bring this up again. He is almost sure of that. Aziraphale is, and always has been, unfailingly kind.

He rocks back on his heels and sits down heavily, catching himself with his hands and staring upward. The scattered stars wink at him as best they can through a halo of light pollution.

 _Kind_ , he thinks, and childish as it is, the word seems to burn.

 

*

 

He gets a cab home, exhausted from all the popping through the fabric of space he's been doing, and even pays the driver, slamming the cab door with a muttered _thanks_. The cab screeches off and Crowley fumbles for his keys, stepping onto the pavement. The dawn threatens rudely in the east, and everything is shades of grey. He takes three wobbly steps in the direction of his flat, and stops.

Aziraphale is there, fidgeting and pacing and muttering to himself like the eccentric old fart he is, his hair standing up in tufts and his ridiculous spectacles still perched on his nose. Crowley shoves his hands in his coat pockets and starts walking again, more slowly.

Aziraphale whips round to stare at him, and Crowley struggles to name the expression on his face – relief, definitely, but something else. Maybe guilt, or concern. Maybe annoyance.

' _Crowley_ ,’ he says, his voice positively dripping with ... something. He rushes towards Crowley, and stops less than a foot away, his hands fluttering in the air between them. They hover over Crowley's shoulders and the lapels of his coat before dropping to Aziraphale's sides.

'Angel,' Crowley says, as indifferently as he can manage. 'Anything the matter?'

'Anything the –' Aziraphale sputters, taking the bait like always, and Crowley almost smiles. 'You ran off – no, I beg your pardon – you _dematerialised_ from the middle of my bookshop, which you haven't done since the 19th century when Gabriel showed up unexpectedly to congratulate me on inventing postage stamps –'

'Those were mine,' Crowley mutters reflexively. ''Swhy they tasted so bad.'

'Crowley, do shut up,' Aziraphale says. Crowley can name the expression on his face now. It's exasperation, pure and simple. The world steadies a little beneath him.

'Well,' he drawls, as annoyingly as he can, 'I'm sorry to have worried you. But as you can see, everything is fine, so why don't you go home and take a nap, or brush your hair, or eat a crumpet. I'm going to bed.'

He steps around Aziraphale with as much confidence as he can manage on still-shaky legs, but an irritatingly strong angelic hand grabs his arm and yanks him back around.

 _'Crowley_ ,' Aziraphale says again, with a different inflection.

Crowley swallows, and falters.

 _'_ What?' he says, plaintively. 'What do you – Aziraphale, what do you _want_?'

'I would like you,' Aziraphale says, as clear as the chime of a bell, 'to kiss me again. I'm afraid you caught me rather by surprise last time.'

Crowley gapes at him.

'Really, dear,' Aziraphale chides, gently touching his chin, 'you'll catch flies.'

This is the funniest thing Crowley has heard all year, but all he can manage is a weak little snort which, if he's being honest, is next door to a hysterical sob.

Aziraphale steps closer and places his hand on Crowley's waist.

'Please,' he murmurs.

'Well,' Crowley says, raggedly. 'Since you asked so nicely.'

He kisses Aziraphale very carefully, one warm point of contact, with Aziraphale's bottom lip caught between both of his own.

It's almost unbearable. He doesn't stop.

'Aziraphale,' he gasps, several minutes later, clutching blindly at handfuls of jacket and waistcoat, 'I ...' He exhales, letting their foreheads rest together. The sun has started to rise.

'I'm sorry,' he says, hearing the petulance in his own voice. 'I don't have the words. All the words belong to your lot.'

Aziraphale smiles at him, his eyes crinkling.

'Crowley,' he says, 'dearest. This does not belong to them.'

'I know,' Crowley says, frustrated, 'that's what I –'

'Crowley,' Aziraphale says, again. 'Listen to me. I love you. As far as I am concerned, no one has ever used that word properly until now. It's ours.'

'That's blasphemous,' Crowley says, but he already feels relief tingling in his extremities. He slumps against Aziraphale, suddenly boneless.

'I suppose it is,' Aziraphale says, his hands resting, miraculously, in Crowley's hair. He sounds supremely unconcerned. 'I don't wish to be presumptuous, dear boy, but is there anything you would like to say to me?'

Crowley laughs, clutching him tighter.

'I love you,' he says, for the first ever time.

**Author's Note:**

> The show seemed to think it was fine for Crowley to be in a graveyard without doing his ow-ow-consecrated-ground dance, which doesn't make sense, but since it was indisputably IN the show I've made an attempt to vaguely sort of explain it. Work with me, please.
> 
> Comments are <3.


End file.
